


Medicine of Law

by ariadneslostthread



Series: Peace of Wild Things [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:39:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadneslostthread/pseuds/ariadneslostthread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras waking up in the middle of the night isn't unusual, but this horrible tightness in his belly is and he very much wishes it would go away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Medicine of Law

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, not what I was supposed to be doing! And again, reluctantly tried out this prompt and look what happened! Unedited!

Enjolras does not sleep well. It’s a much bemoaned fact amongst his friends, particularly those who’ve had the misfortune to share a bed with him; he fidgets, and tosses and kicks, active even in his sleep. Nor does he tend to sleep through the night, but wakes at the slightest noise and often at no noise at all but the whirring of his mind and hops out of bed to write something down or carry on with whatever he was doing because, quite frankly, there is not enough hours in the day for someone as busy as he. 

So he’s not surprised to wake in the pale light of the early hours of the morning, more put out, because he was exhausted going to bed and feels no better for the few hours he has managed. Rolling over onto his back he sits up and shuffles so he can rest his back against the head board and try to puzzle out what, exactly, he is awake for now.

There is a tight knot in his stomach, similar to the tension he feels when anxious, or there is something he’s meant to have done and hasn’t. But puzzle over it he might, he cannot think of a single thing which might make him anxious. Slowly, realisation begins to dawn and he slips out of bed and, quite casually, goes to the bathroom and sits on the edge of the bath because now he’s thought of it, he’s fairly sure he’s going to be sick.

So he sits there, bare feet slowly numbing from the chill of the tiles and hands shaking, and does not throw up. If there is one thing worse than vomiting it’s the apprehension of nausea, the uncertainty that one may vomit in the not so distant future and one is not in an appropriate location. Despite his preparedness Enjolras isn’t known for his patience and cannot abide waiting for the inevitable. He covers his face with his hands, icy fingers against burning cheeks, and rests his head on his knees, rocking ever so slightly to negate the knot in his belly he now recognises is the beginnings of cramping.

He’s about to resort to sticking his fingers down his throat, just to get it over with, to at least take control when it happens and still he is surprised as his knees hit the tiles with a crack and he vomits, nervous system taking control of everything below his tongue. He does, as he suspected he might, feel marginally better once he’s thrown up his dinner, and, after a few more heaves, whatever else he’d eaten yesterday. Coughing, and wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist he casts his mind back over what he had eaten, suspecting each meal of inflicting this current discomfort on him. Nothing seemed likely, and indeed, he’d also shared every meal with a friend yesterday. So, if it was food poisoning he’d be getting a call no doubt, from Courfeyrac who’d cookedtheir breakfast or from Grantaire with whom he’d shared lunch, eating from each other’s plates as was their habit. 

Trembling, he pulls himself to his feet and flushes and makes his way back to his room, one hand tracing the wall for support because he isn’t entirely convinced he won’t pass out. His phone displays no messages or missed calls once he fishes it from underneath his pillow, but he isn’t surprised. He doesn’t have the energy to diagnose himself further, mind turning instead to the more pressing problem of how to hide this from Combeferre. Combeferre wasn’t especially a light sleeper, but, unlike Enjolras, just a normal person, able to sleep through the night but liable to wake if disturbed by, say, the repeated flushing of a toilet. He sits on his bed for a moment, pondering the problem but knows there is no solution; at least not until his stomach is empty. 

So, wobbling precariously, he stands and returns to his position perched on the edge of the bath, wishing, this time, he’d brought a blanket, or perhaps a book, but entirely lacking the energy to go and get either. Waiting it out, it seems, isn’t an option because he’s soon doubled over, stomach in painful knots and bile and stomach acid burning in his throat. He spits, and sinks to sit cross legged between toilet and bath, slumping sideways against the wall. The cool tiles feel good against his burning cheeks and forehead, but unpleasant through his thin pajamasand he shivers violently, with cold and exhaustion.

He can feel saliva rise in his mouth as the nausea soon resurges and now he does stick his finger down his throat, to expel anything and everything else on his own terms, and carries on doing so until his gag reflex barely responds and he is sure there is nothing but bile left to come up. Utterly spent, he hits the flush and leans back against the cold wall, breathing hard through his nose.

He must be completely out of it because he opens his eyes to a soft hand against his forehead, and concerned frown on Combeferre’s face. Combeferre is unusually attuned to these things, a skill which suits him and has played no small part in his decision to pursue medicine above all other interests. 

Enjolras gives him a wan half-smile, too weak to do more, too weak to object and far too weak and upset to insist he’s fine.

“How long?”

The concern in Combeferre’s voice is almost enough to bring tears to his eyes; he hates being ill, hates it more than anything else and hates how it reduces him to an emotionally volatile child.

“An hour, maybe more…”

Combeferres nods, as his suspicions are confirmed. “Are you cramping?”

Enjolras nods, face crumpling. And as Combeferre says “Oh…’Jol,” in a whisper and gathers him into his arms, he can’t help the tears which spill onto his hot cheeks. Combeferre holds him for a moment, discreetly giving him a moment to pull himself together before propping him back against the wall again. He stands and runs a flannel under the tap, wringing it out, before dropping back to a crouch and gently wiping Enjolras’ face. 

Enjolras, defeated and resigned, lets him. 

“Can you stand?”

“Think so.”

“Come on then.” 

Enjolras pushes himself to his feet but is inordinately grateful for Combeferre’s strong and steady shoulder under his arm and warm grip around his waist as he all but carries him back to bed. After tucking him in again Combeferre sits himself on theedge of the bed and feels Enjolras’ forehead again. 

“Do you think you’ll be sick again?”

Embarrassed, Enjolras gives a small nods. Combeferre smiles sadly, but fetches the bin from the bathroom, dumping it’s contents into the one in Enjolras’ own room. Without a word he puts in within reach next to the bed.

“Tummy bug, I think. You’re burning up.” He folds the flannel he still holds flat and smoothes it over Enjolras’ forehead. “There’s been one going around at the hospital, I’m afraid. Although, when isn’t there. So you’ve probably picked it from me, I’m sorry.”

Enjolras shakes his head a little, because it isn’t Combeferre’s fault and he does feel a bit better with Combeferre there and is glad he found him.

“Should I stay in here tonight?” Combeferre asks, stroking the back of his index finger over one red cheekbone.

Another tight shake of the head. “You’ll catch it.” Enjolras murmurs, eager for sleep but the ache in his stomach cruelly distracting.

“I spend most of my working life in a hospital riddled with bugs, E. If I’m destined to get it, I will. And you can look after me, like you always do.” This was just a reality of Combeferre’s life, it might seem ironic but if one wants to heal the sick, one must equate oneself to said sick infecting one. 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything but twines his fingers around Combeferre’s wrist. 

“Alright then,” Combeferre says with a nod and climbs over Enjolras to slide into bed next to him. Within minutes Enjolras has curled himself into a tight little ball, arms wrapped around his sore stomach, Combeferre warm against his aching back. 

 

He wakes in much the same position, ache still unpleasant in his belly and head swimming as he tries to sit up, before quickly retreating back into his pillows. Beside him Combeferre stretches and sits up without difficulty.

“Morning.” He says and immediately reaches for Enjolras’ forehead to feel for a temperature. “Feeling any better?”

“Not really.” Enjolras replies softly, still too groggy from sleep to think of anything but honesty. 

“You’re awfully pale.” Combeferre notes, standing and moving to the bathroom , returning with a glass of water and thermometer. “Here…” He passes Enjolras the glass of water. “Slowly.” He admonishes after the first gulp. 

Enjolras can’t control the shaking of his hands, and spills a little on the covers but Combeferre rescues the glass before it can end too badly. 

“Under your tongue, if you please.”

There is little Enjolras can do to protest, and little energy he has to protest with it, so he does as bid after Combeferre has given the thermometer a good shake down. Combeferre sits with him, leaning on one hand to make a kind of bridge over Enjolras’ hip, as they wait.

“Yup. Definitely a bug.”

“Great.”

“Don’t worry, it’s a bit of a 24 hour thing. At least the vomiting is. You’ll be a bit wobbly for a few days. Just need to try and keep fluids down today.”

“I’m supposed to have a meeting with Feuilly about that worker’s comp case…”

“There isn’t a chance I’m letting you out of bed until your temperature comes down, and certainly not to any meetings until it’s back to normal for at least 24 hours.”

Enjolras opens his mouth o object but is cut off. 

“Besides, I’m one thing, but do you want to give this to Feuilly?” Combeferre interrupts, which shuts him up. “No? Alright then. Bed it is. Maybe the sofa, if you’re good.”

Enjolras summons the energy to glare at him, but can’t be bothered to follow through and just looks pitiful and sad. 

“I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. I’ll make your excuses to Feuilly.” Combeferre offers, one hand rubbing comforting circles against Enjolras’ leg. “Do you want to try eating?”

Combeferre hadn’t thought it possible, but Enjolras pales further at the very thought. “It’s alright, you don’t have to. I’m not going to force you. Just water. Maybe some electrolyte solution if you can stomach that?”

Enjolras pulls a face because he can’t stand electrolyte replenishment solution, the blackcurrant one most of all is vile, and he swearsactually caused him to throw up once. In fairness, it might have been the alcohol, but nevertheless, it had taken the better part of a week and much grovelling and bribery on Courfeyrac’s part for Enjolras to forgive him, firstly, for getting him so drunk in the first place and secondly, nicking some of Joly’s supply of Dioralyte as an attempt to prevent the subsequent hangovers. 

Combeferre smiles at him. “No Dioralyte either then. Do you want to try to sleep a bit more?”

Enjolras nods, curling up again, but doesn’t feel hopeful; he’s never been able to sleep during the day, it just seems a waste of daylight. On the other hand he’s exhausted and stuck in bed anyway, so he’ll damn well try to sleep through the next 24 hours if he can.

Combeferre nods and strokes his hair as he stands, sympathy and concern welling in his own stomach. “Sleep then. I’ll check on you in a bit.”

It’s a Saturday so Enjolras shouldn’t have been at work anyway (doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have been) and Combeferre is currently working nights, so he’s free until midnight at which point, if Enjolras still has a temperature and can’t be left he’ll have to call in assistance, but until then they’re set.

He makes breakfast for himself, scrolling through the news on his phone as he eats one handed and debates what to do while Enjolras sleeps. Free time isn’t something he’s particularly accustomed to, what little he has of it is often dedicated to his friends and their various dramas, so he considers sitting down with a book which isn’t about medicine, or watching something on TV, films he’s been meaning to watch for years. In the end, his work ethic wins out so he sits down with a pile of journals and reads about the latest research into stenting aneurisms. He calls Feuilly, tells him Enjolras is ill and ends up with the feeling they are going to end up with an influx and well meaning and well wishing visitors which Enjolras certainly isn’t going to appreciate in his current state. Neither will anyone else if they come down with what Enjolras has.

He jumps a mile when the doorbell goes, because even the constant text ring, which borders on a hive mind, their friends have going isn’t that fast.

He’s surprised to find Eponine on the other side of the door, chewing her lip and clutching a folder to her chest. 

“Hello!” He says, with a broad smile.   
“Hi Combeferre.” She says a little breathlessly, “I was just wondering if Enjolras was in…I wanted to ask…er…” she flushes. 

“Come in, Eponine.” Combeferre pulls her inside into a hug with a gentle laugh. “And tell me what’s got you so flustered.”

Eponine gets herself and her bags through the door, dropping them with relieved grunt to the floor. 

“Shh. Enjolras is asleep. Or trying to.”

“Sorry. Sorry…I…ah…”

“It’s alright, sit, sit. I’ll make tea. He’s just not feeling very well.”

“Oh…I didn’t realise…should I…”

“No, no, don’t be daft. But fair warning, he started throwing up last night and has been running a temperature ever since so…”

“God, I don’t care about that…poor Enjolras… but…er…” Combeferre returns with two mugs of tea, handing one off to Eponine as she folds her legs underneath her on the sofa.

“Eponine, it’s not like you to be so flustered, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing. It’s just…ah…this stupid essay. Enjolras said he’d help if I got stuck…” She looks somewhat forlorn.

“Don’t worry, I can guarantee he won’t be sleeping, and if he’s feeling up to it I’m sure he’ll want the distraction. If you’re not afraid of the lurgy?”

Eponine shakes her head vehemently with the confidence of one who haslooked after enough little brothers and sisters to not care about a little sickness.

“Failing that, I’ll see what I can do and if I turn out to be useless we can track down Courfeyrac, alright?”

Eponine nods, breathing out. “Alright. Thanks Combeferre.”

“I need to check on Enjolras anyway, sit tight, drink your tea, and don’t panic.”

As predicted, Enjolras is awake, but doesn’t look happy about it, curled on his other side now facing the door. 

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Enjolras shakes his head, looking utterly miserable. “You have company?”

“Actually, you do. Eponine. Having a minor freak out about I paper I gather. Do you feel upto giving her a hand?”

“You mean she isn’t scared of…this…” he gestures to himself, pulling a face.

“Not in the slightest.” Combeferre checks his forehead, humming approvingly. “Bit cooler. Let me check?”

Enjolras nods his permission and Combeferre takes his temperature again. “Mmm. Still up, but if you’re sure you’re feeling up to it?”

Enjolras nods, struggling to an upright position. “I’m sure I can handle a second year law assignment. Bring it on.”

“Alright. Do notbe…well, you. If you’re struggling, say so.”

“I will.”

“Promise.”

Enjolras laughs lightly, “Fine, worrier. I promise.”

Eponine is strangely shy when she sticks her head around the door, knocking softly. She sort of freezes when she sees him, pale and sitting up in bed, blankets pulled up to his waist; because it’s half surreal and beyond strange to see the great Apollo being so human, ill and clearly feverish. But he smiles and beckons her in, breaking the spell.

“You poor thing. Are you sure about this?” She goes over to him, automatically pressing a hand to his forehead in a gesture familiar from looking after ill siblings.

He smiles again, indulging her, but can’t help but close his eyes at the coolness of her palm.

“I’ll manage. Are you sure? Do not blame me if you end up on the bathroom floor at 4am. I’m sure Courfeyrac will help, and isn’t carrying the plague.”

“I want you. And it’s hardly the plague. Illness makes you melodramatic.”

Enjolras’ lips quirk at that. “You want me, huh?”

“Don’t let it go to your head. You’re a good teacher, passionate. I mean, Courfeyrac too but I like how you explain things, sort of methodical and logical. I like logic.” 

Enjolras blushes beneath the fever. “Well, thank you. You like logic? Then you’ll make a good lawyer.”

“God, I hope so. After all this.”

“I have faith in you.”

“You have faith in everything.”

“Only things that are worth having faith in. And, that doesn’t make it any less of a compliment so just take it.”

“Thank you, then.”

“Come on then. Let’s see what we have here.”

She hands him the assignment brief first, watching his eyes flick back and forth across the page as she shifts herself from the edge of the bed to the chair, setting up a desk type of arrangement by his legs.

By the time she’s explained where she’s got to with the assignment and he’s given her his own interpretation of what the brief is asking for she’s already feeling much calmer. This is Enjolras’ talent, to take anything and transform it into something anyone can understand. It’s rhetoric, all of it, whether it be the speeches he gives, inspiring all those who listen or explaining maths to Gavroche without the endlessly curious child getting bored.

After an hour, she’s fairly confident she can handle the assignment and after two she’s beyond excited to get back into it and has spent the last half an hour quizzing Enjolras on intricacies of the law and justice which are far beyond the remit of the assignment, but she’ll cram them in there regardless. By the time she’s finished scribbling down whatever he says, he’s clearly exhausted, leaning back against his pillows, head tipped back onto the headboard and knees drawn up to his chest. 

“I think I’ve worn you out.” She says setting her notebook aside.

“I’m never tired of law and justice.” He replies, light tone belying his sincerity.

“You know you sound like a comic book character when you say things like that?”

He laughs a bit but otherwise doesn’t reply. She takes in the line between his eye brows, the tense set to his jaw, the tightness of his grip around his legs.

“Tummy ache?” she asks, tipping her head to the side with a concerned frown.

He nods, closing his eyes, and pulling his lips between his teeth.

“I have an idea that might make you feel better.” She darts out of the room before Enjolras has the chance to make any sort of reply.

Five minutes later she returns, hot water bottle in hand.

He raises an eyebrow sceptically.

“Trust me.” She coaxes him to relinquish his knees and tucks the hot water bottle against his abdomen before letting him curl up again. 

“Oh…” he whispers softly, as he realises it’s helping. “How did you…”

“Know it would help? Mmm, lets just say most girls probably would.”

“Oh. Thank you, for sharing your womanly secrets then.”

“Ha. Have you eaten anything today?”

“God no.”

“Water?”

“A bit, this morning.”

“Here, drink…” She hands him the glass from the nightstand and he sips from it slowly. She takes it back once he’s finished and runs her hand over his forehead again. “I’d stay and fuss over you but….” She gestures to the pile of books and papers she’s stuffed haphazardly back into their bags.

Enjolras waves her away. “Go, go. Change the world once astounding paper at a time. Leave me to Combeferre’s tender mercies.”

“You’ll be fine in no time.” She promises, planting a kiss to his still hot forehead. “I can’t thank you enough, Enjolras. You have literally saved my life.”

“Now who’s being melodramatic. You’re entirely welcome. Anytime.”

With another quick kiss to his hair, she’s gone in a flurry of papers and Enjolras is free to roll over and throw up the water he’s just drank into his bin. 

“Ah…water coming up as well?” Combeferre asks, sitting down next to him and pulling his curls back from his face with one hand, the other on his back. 

Enjolras shakes his head, still leaning over the edge of the bed, shaking from the effort. 

“Finished?” Combeferre sits him up, easing him down under the covers and pulling them up over his chest. “I told you not to push it.”

“I didn’t, ‘Ferre. I swear I didn’t. It wasn’t until I had the water.” Enjolras protests, curling up on his side, clutching the hot water bottle to his stomach like a lifeline.

Combeferre doesn’t look completely convinced but indicates the hot water bottle. “That really works, then?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Not sure what it’s doing to your temperature but I’m not complaining if it’s helping.”

Enjolras doesn’t reply, Combeferre’s hand is rubbing warm circles on his back exactly where it aches from heaving and too many hours pressed to a chilled bathroom floor.

“If you can’t keep water down by tonight I’ll start an IV.”

“Do you have to?”

“It’s either an IV or the hospital, which?”

“IV.”

“Thought so.” Combeferre threads his fingers into Enjolras’ hair, combing through the damp curls.

“Glad you’re here.” Enjolras murmurs sleepily. Combeferre hums in reply, and stays where he is, one hand on Enjolras back and the other in his hair until he’s sure that he’s fully asleep.


End file.
